She never learns where Elena obtained the
photographs; in the greater scheme of things it simply doesn't
matter. Squatting on the ground, chains around her ankles
leaving her flesh raw for tropical parasites, Irina has better things
to contemplate than the bureaucratic inability to discard even the most
minor records: for one thing, there is the possibility that she will
die here. Probability, she would say, but Elena is not wholly
rational and this makes her unpredictable.
"Do you remember that day?" Elena asks. She's sitting next to
Irina, an arm around her shoulders; it would almost certainly a mistake
to allow herself to shudder, Irina thinks. "How proud of you
we were, even Papushka. And how pretty you looked."
She does remember that day, in fact, how hard it was to look somber and
impressed as she shook hands with a range of men too important to have
titles, and how relieved she was that it was a bright day in their
father's slide into madness. And then they were rushed off to
a studio, just Elena and her, for the first in a series of photograph
sessions. She must have looked confused; one of the dressers
had patted her hand and said, "Americans take photographs too, you
know." Elena made a face behind the woman's back: don't embarrass me by being an
idiot, it meant. But Elena had been quiet when
they saw the dress as well: yards and yards of pale yellow chiffon and
satin, something for a fairy-tale princess. "A prom dress," the
woman explained, using the English word, and following it up with a
lecture on consumerism and the wasteful habits of young
Americans. "But you're the right age, and you may need such a
photograph for your cover. Sit down and we will fix your
hair."
She remembers Elena's face as she stood in front of the screen, how her
mouth was set in a hard line. Jealousy, she thought, and
smiled even wider. She wonders now what might have happened
if she'd told Elena how uncomfortable the dress was, scratchy and false
against her skin, how the makeup itched and the pins dug into her
scalp. Would she be here now, insects buzzing in her ears and
mud caked on her skin, if she hadn't gloried in that moment, that day
she finally surpassed her sister? Elena likes to pretend that
only sisterly affection makes her let Irina out of her underground
cell, sometimes that only that affection keeps Irina alive.
Love or jealousy, destiny or their family madness: like the
photographs, in the greater scheme of things it doesn't matter why
she's here, only how she can survive. She smiles and leans
her head against Elena's shoulder.
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Written to a challenge by yahtzee. Alias is owned by JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Production, and ABC. No copyright infringement intended, and no profit made. Original story elements my own.